VEAL IN VEGASWritten for The East Bay Monthly (1992)

We sat across from each other on the Frisco to Vegas shuttle, interleaving our legs to maintain circulation. Two facing rows, one foot space, buddy plan, bag of peanuts, and a stop in Burbank for twenty-five minutes.

My friend David Feldman and I are comedians headed to the taping of an HBO Comedy Special. Sitting behind me is Warren Thomas, another comedian buddy, hopping off during the L.A. stop for an MTV taping.

Feldo tries to figure out Robin Williams' percentage of the Aladdin fortune, while the Warren and I riff over the top of my seat; a free show for the Thursday afternoon tail section. Like it or not, we just can't shut up and zone out.

I break brash, standing with an "air-mike" in my hand.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is your (yawn) Captain... excuse me folks...Jeez, maybe a little cof-(bigyawn)-fee would help me figure out how to start these jet (yawn and shudder) thingies."

The laughter starts. Warren cracks, "Hey, any you guys seen the movie ALIVE!?and gets a blast of shock recognition cackles. He has set the hook for a plane crash/cannibalism gag. I turn toward the sweet spot of the coach audience, kneel up on my seat and thrust up three fingers to cash in on his film reference with a Spanish accent, "Listen amigos! We've been stranded here for five days!"

Big yuks all around and the passengers are ours. Warren and I tag team out joke after joke.

A few seats away sits Robert Hayes, comedic actor from the movie AIRPLANE! He grits his teeth, anticipating my next tie-in gag line, and mouths, "Please…NO!"

No sweat. I'm sure he's been sliced and diced by everyone who recognizes him on every flight since that film. I smile big. wink and leave him to his magazine and anonymity. Resticat in Pace.Jokes fly and cards get exchanged. An old gal gives me a flirty wink and I smile like a Eagle Scout.

Jeez, if anyone asked me to name the most natural aphrodisiac I’d have to say, making the other person laugh and letting them know you love doing it.

An ex-Giants baseball player walks by as our descent into L.A. starts.

"You're a very funny guy - you should be on T.V.!"

I nod a "thanks," but I think about the ongoing collapse of comedy club circuits due to the voracious appetite and seduction of Cable.

Mutate or die, Marty. Comedy is serious business!

Burbank. Tourists off, gamblers on. Twenty-five minutes of amusing baseball anecdotes from the Giant.He’s trying his best to show me his comedy stuff. When the plane is packed, we lift off and head for the desert. That's a laugh. This is all desert.

I've worked Las Vegas at least fifty-sixty times. Sometimes as a stand-up comic, others as Master of Ceremonies, making phony keynote speeches, greeting V.I.P.’s, performing walk-around shtick, being a shill for Casino pitchmen, or impersonating Caesar himself at My Palace!

I've done just about everything but hold a regular job there.

But I am always amazed, as we approach McCarron Airport, at how thoroughly illogical Las Vegas is.

There are new buildings and major changes since my last Strip gig: a new huge MGM Grand, looking more like a NASA assembly hangar than a resort, a monstrous Pyramid casino/hotel, promising by its foundation geometry to dwarf Giza, and the deserted Dunes, whose owner attracted a film company who paid a fortune to destroy that most recognizable landmark.

The furrowed cabby brings us up to date as he drives us to the Tropicana – the same old story – restless money, new owners, shifting real estate. After twenty-two years of running to and from the Strip, he says he still doesn't know why he never got his big break.

Naked dancers in your room! Eat `til you bust! Handsful of nickels! Girls - alone or together - available in minutes!

By my presence here, I acknowledge the currency of sex business alongside the slots and bars and souvenir shops and wedding chapels. I have made a tacit agreement to tolerate their values, play by their rules, spin the wheel and take my losses like a pro. All for a shot at the Jackpot while enjoying the faux entitlement of being a well-watered, honored guest… until the cash runs out.

Hundreds of sex magazine vending machines line the long stretches of gritty sidewalk displaying every imaginable sexual proposition. Pamphlets, flyers and tabloids stacked inside and on top of row upon row of magazine dispensers.

Each sun scorched metal box bristles with fanned rows of "outcall sex" business cards jammed in its cracks and seams; shocking pink tickets presenting infinite shattered mirror reproductions of cloned leering women amid preposterous calligraphy cadenzas, all designed to incite and assure with coded pledges and inferences of out-and-out gratification; profane propositions that own legality by reason of multiple lexiconic interpretations.

The very gutters are littered with discarded opportunities, smashed, dirty and torn; their tanned breasts and buttocks clashing with sand, dust and refuse.

But I look up at the plywood construction site wall around the "Grand" and see illustrations of Dorothy and Toto and the Tin Man waving me in. Familiar cartoon characters, thrilling rides and spooky attractions beckon. A Forty Acre Action Theme Park / Movie Studio!

I've seen kids here: dragging their weary wool behind a listless Mom and Dad, or waiting in the coffee shop while a whole years' allowance in quarters goes up in smoke down a slot, or locked in a hotel room at night to watch Beauty and the Beast, while downstairs, the Big Room features booze, breasts and buns.

Vegas is an adult town with little other than Circus Circus to offer children.

So, something has to change here if Fred or Wilma or Barney or My Little Pony is coming to play.Somehow, Vegas has to re-adjust to the baby boom babies and Artifact Kids. At least sweep up the streets and clean out the pigpen.

I say to Feldo, "I'm sure the locals have a slang word to describe a cynic like me." "They do," he huffs,

"Broke." Suddenly, I don’t feel all that well.

"Look," he says, "It's always been `milk the cow' here. You go home, graze, get a belly full and, once, maybe twice a year, come on back for a milking. You don't have to enjoy it, you just need it."

I looked at a passing herd of overweight, tired, distracted people and figured he was probably right. Yeah, there were some who weren't beaten down like the rest of the drove, but for the most part, their migration along the strip was a joyless plod through doors and gates and ramps and aisles.

On the bright side, our comedy taping that night was a room full of happy people celebrating a break in their routine. Ninety minutes of tribal relaxation and communion. Well, I'm a comic, so maybe I'm a trifle poetic about the business.

When I woke, early the next morning, the sun was just rising over the mountains. When I stepped out onto the balcony to breathe in the kitchen smells and hot air, I heard – way off in the distance – the sound of cows shuffling in the dairy and bulls being gated into the abattoir; their hooves stumbling through aisles and ramps.

That's when I heard the Phantom Vegas Rancher drawl, "Y'all come back now soon, and next time bring your calves!"